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Poetry
(From the November 2000
issue)
Cock-a-Doodle-Youse
He goosed my heart
until
I laid my golden
egg
Which he promptly stuffed
inside his
Turkey breast.
Then he flew the
coop.
&endash; LAURENCE
OVERMIRE
Eternal
there is no need
to gobble your pleasures,
for love is infinite and
you are eternal.
&endash; RICK KLAUS THEIS
http://members.aol.com/mwpress
"Gobble
gobble"
Ever wonder what Tom
Turkey is gobbling about?
Could it be because time's
running out?
Thanksgiving day is
growing near,
Causing anxiety and a
great deal of fear.
But for now, Tom's still
strutting around;
Has his weight up to
'round twenty pound.
Thru a window he can see
Grandma baking a pie
And a big double broiler
has caught his eye.
He's not looking forward
to being stuffed.
Just the thought of it
gets his feathers all ruffed.
But he might as well face
the unfortunate fact.
He can see grandpa nearby
sharpening his axe.
It's hard to accept this
as his fate,
To end up on somebody's
dinner plate.
But one last wish he'd
like to make &endash;
That we all end up with a
bellyache.
&endash; HUGH
COMSTOCK
Stood Up
The seconds tick by
Until it's apparent
I've been stood up
As this coffee
house
Sunday morning
Swirls in my tea
cup.
Another ideal
woman.
Another bubble
burst.
And I'm sure it
Won't be the last,
Just as it wasn't the
first.
Jung's anima and animus
writings
Ironically sit at my
side.
For what am I
searching?
Isn't it really
inside?
I've enjoyed this past
hour
Of being alone
Which fate has scheduled
for me.
I've created a beautiful
drawing;
I've read; I've
relaxed;
I've thought; even written
this poem.
I think if she comes in
now,
Explaining she'd mixed up
the hour,
I'll tell her she's mixed
me up
With some other
fellow.
And I'll leave here more
content,
More happy and more whole
&endash;
And more in love with my
own soul.
&endash; RICK KLAUS
THEIS
http://members.aol.com/mwpress
Daydream from
an
Indian Lake
Porch
Large banana yellow maple
leaves
hang. Perhaps with
expected relief.
a summer green curtain of
hemlocks
proudly holding their
color, while
a memory caught in a
smell
swirling, white gray haze
of burning leaves
entwines around clear
sunlight
this November day.
(an orange-black butterfly
dances
through the dream.)
&endash; D.C.
HETZLER
Menu at the Poetry
Cafe
Yellow dandelions
Grasshopper legs
Sycamore leaves à
la rustle
Stillness
Stars in
candlelight
&endash; MARY C.
HESS
The Coffee
House
he sits at the
table.
no coffee, no paper, no
laptop.
nothing.
he's alone, looking across
the room.
other tables are alive
with laughter,
talking, writing.
he looks around, one more
time.
his face oddly strained
toward the
other faces. he's
invisible to them.
his face says "can't you
see me?!"
he gets up, walks
out
into the street.
&endash; D.C.
HETZLER
Drive-By
Concerto
As windshield
wipers,
Like metronomes, keep time
to
The car radio &endash;
Birds become music
notes
On the staff of telephone
wires,
And orchestrate
Mozart.
&endash; MARY C.
HESS